


In This Life or Another

by china_shop



Series: Waltzverse [7]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Character(s) of Color, Criminal Informants and their Handlers, Dating, F/M, M/M, Multi, One Night Stands, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 15:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4025104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clinton's new CI is trouble with a capital T. There's no way he's going to follow Peter's example. Not in this life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Life or Another

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the folks at ushobwri, and to EliseM for the title. And extra super mega thanks to mergatrude, Sherylyn and Musings for beta and Ameripicking, and Dragonfly for language advice.
> 
> Some of the OC names in this fic are taken from the White Collar crew list. :-)

"So, what do you think? Is it a con?" Clinton opened two beers and gave one to Diana. 

It was Friday night. They'd just come from dinner at the Burkes' house, everyone crowded around their dining table with the kids, and now Theo was asleep in Clinton's bedroom—they were staying over; Clinton was taking the couch—and he and Diana could talk in private.

Diana took a swig of beer. "A con on who, Peter and Elizabeth? I think Caffrey's crazy about them. Why, do you think it's a con?"

"I just wanted a second opinion." Clinton shrugged one shoulder. She'd left town, so it was his responsibility to have Peter's back; he didn't want her to think he'd been falling down on the job. But if she was confident… No, even then, there was good reason to be cautious. "He let them think he was dead for a year. I wouldn't put anything past him."

"You don't trust Neal?" Diana dropped into the armchair by the TV and kicked off her shoes.

Clinton sat across from her on the couch. "You mean Victor?" He ducked his head to the side. "I mean, I like him well enough. I just think, you know, all the crap he's pulled over the years. He's a con artist. He always has an agenda."

"You can't deny he loves Peter, though." Diana still seemed untroubled, and that was more reassuring than anything.

"And Elizabeth," agreed Clinton. "You're right. I guess I'm still getting my head around it." 

"Your happily married boss sleeping with a guy." Diana smirked at him knowingly. 

Clinton scoffed, but it was truer than he was willing to admit. His idea of a threesome involved two women, not two men. And he had a few gay friends, but they'd all been gay as long as he'd known them. None of them had been married for over a decade before they figured it out. 

If it could happen to Peter, it could happen to anyone. "You think they'll make a go of it?"

"I hope so," said Diana. "It's good to see Peter happy again."

They were both quiet, thinking about the past year. Peter had been a ghost for months, tired and withdrawn. He'd barely cracked a smile until his son was born. That had helped some, given him something to look forward to at the end of the day. But even so, the relaxed, teasing guy who'd just hosted them for dinner was almost unrecognizable as the ASAC Peter Burke of a month ago. 

The change had spilled over into his work life too. Earlier that week Clinton had heard a shout of the old Burke laughter coming from Peter's office, and even the agent he was debriefing had grinned at the sound. "Things are looking up," she said. They were indeed. 

Clinton smiled now, agreeing with Diana. "And how about you? How's D.C.?"

"I'm settling in. Keeping well clear of Kramer and his bullies." Diana grimaced. "It's not as exciting as fieldwork, but the hours and the pay are better, so—"

"And you're a mom now." Clinton grinned, teasing her. She'd been fiercely independent as long as he'd known her, even when she was with Christie, and now her life seemed like a tangled web of obligations and relationships—Theo, her parents, even Mozzie. 

Sometimes Clinton was grateful for his autonomy. Coming home to an empty apartment was peaceful and uncomplicated. But sometimes he wondered if he was getting left behind.

 

*

 

He'd always kept his private life simple. His work hours weren't suited to serious relationships—he'd known that going in; it was one of the reasons he and Isabel parted ways—and when he took over as head of the team, it wasn't just stakeouts and street surveillance anymore. He was responsible for the unit's solve rate and the safety of nearly a dozen people. He didn't have time or energy to be keeping a girlfriend happy too.

There was the administrative load, and on top of that, if a case required undercover work, it usually fell to him as the most experienced agent in the unit. Since he didn't have Caffrey's wide-ranging expertise, each role required research. He started taking files home with him, sitting in front of the TV, yawning over case reports and monthly stats on his laptop, answering work emails at eleven at night. Peter had left big shoes to fill.

Clinton's mom called to see if he'd met anyone new, and he realized he hadn't been out socially in over three months. 

When even Peter looked thoughtful and asked if he'd considered getting a dog, Clinton knew things were getting serious. He delegated the next weekend's shifts, spent Thursday and Friday clearing the urgent items from his in-tray and took the weekend off. 

And though what he really wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for about a week, he forced himself to clean up, dig some non-work clothes out of his closet and head around the corner to his neighborhood bar.

The place was dark and crowded, and based on the Mariah Carey and Guns N' Roses soundtrack, it was nineties night. Clinton found a seat at the bar and settled in with a beer to watch people flirt at the tops of their voices. Tried to summon the energy to join in.

The seat next to him freed up, and soon after, a woman tapped him on the shoulder. "Mind if I sit here?"

"Help yourself," said Clinton, pulling back to give her more room.

She was pretty and curvy, her natural hair framing her face in a soft cloud, and she looked like she'd had a long week too. She was carrying the last inch of a cocktail, and she'd been chewing her straw. "You here alone?" she asked, and continued without waiting for an answer, "Man, this music makes me feel ancient. I remember dancing to this in college."

Alanis Morissette was singing "Hand in my Pocket."

"I know what you mean," said Clinton. "But it's no-win. When they play recent music, I don't recognize it, and then I feel old _and_ out of touch." He touched his glass to hers in greeting. "Clinton."

"Janelle," she said. "The only solution is to go old school—Bob Dylan, and the Beatles. Then we can all feel young. Marvin Gaye."

"Otis Redding," said Clinton. He looked around the bar. "You know, to half the people here, this might as well be Otis Redding. It's all ancient history, as far as they're concerned."

"Babies," agreed Janelle, cheerfully. "They have no idea how nostalgic they'll get over One Direction someday." She leaned against the bar, propping her head on her hand. "Man, I'm so glad it's Friday."

Clinton finished his beer and discreetly checked her out. She seemed comfortable and friendly, and she wasn't setting off any alarm bells. "Buy you another drink?" he asked.

She turned on her stool and sized him up, then touched his wrist. "I've got half a bottle of Tullamore Dew back at my place. You like whiskey?"

"Sounds great." Clinton smiled. "Lead the way."

 

*

 

Janelle lived in a basement apartment, a couple blocks south of the bar. The furniture was comfortable and worn, and the air slightly musty, which Clinton attributed to the three tropical fish tanks along one wall. There was a bookcase crammed with paperbacks and DVDs, and some sports equipment by the door. It felt like a home—somewhere people actually hung out and talked to each other, not just an extension of their workplace. Clinton went to look in the aquariums. "Nice fish."

"They're my daughter's," said Janelle.

She was watching his reaction, so he kept it neutral. "You have kids?"

"A ten-year-old. She's at her father's. That a problem?"

"Not at all," said Clinton. He went over and kissed her, gentle and exploratory, and she linked her hands behind his neck and kissed back. It was nice. Clinton felt himself sinking into the moment, anticipating what would come next. Janelle pulled back slightly, her eyes dark.

"You still want that drink?"

"No," said Clinton, and drew her close again.

They went to her bedroom and fucked, and it was easy and good, and afterward, Clinton had to struggle to stay awake. "Sorry," he said, covering his second yawn in as many minutes.

"No problem," said Janelle. "You can stay if you want, but I'm warning you now, I'm a snorer."

"Loud?"

"As a jackhammer."

"I'll risk it," said Clinton, giving up the fight and letting his eyes fall shut. 

He slept like the dead, and woke late to a tray of banana chocolate chip pancakes and coffee for two.

"Breakfast in bed only happens when my daughter's not here," said Janelle. "She's a morning person. It kills me." She took off her robe and slid back into bed naked, and Clinton kissed her smooth brown shoulder.

"I don't know whether to start with you or the pancakes."

She grinned and picked up a coffee mug. "Well, I'm going to start with pancakes while they're still warm."

Clinton took a bite. The pancakes were overly sweet, but he wasn't complaining. "You know, I have to thank you for this. I've been working too much lately, and this is really nice."

"Not a bad way to spend a Friday night, huh?" She took a bite of pancake. "What kind of work do you do?"

"I'm with the FBI," he said, straight up, relieved when she didn't wince or frown. "You?"

"Digital librarian. It's about as glamorous as it sounds. Listen, my daughter gets home at noon, and I have to clean up before then, so I'm going to have to kick you out by ten-thirty. Fair warning."

"Of course," said Clinton. According to the clock on the nightstand, it was only ten past nine. He excused himself to go to the bathroom, and on the way back, stuck his head in the kitchen out of curiosity and saw a bulletin board covered in birthday cards and photos—Janelle and a baby; Janelle and a little girl; the girl and a smiling guy with a goatee. The girl laughing, playing soccer, ice skating, feeding a giant tortoise. In different Halloween costumes. In school uniform. It was like looking at pictures from another world. He'd almost forgotten people had lives like this; nearly everyone he met was either a criminal or a victim, and since he worked in White Collar, most of the victims were corporate executives or millionaires—and most of the criminals, too.

He went back to the bedroom. Janelle had tied her hair up and was drinking her coffee. She was nice and pretty, and she seemed to like him. 

"I saw the photos in your kitchen," said Clinton, smiling an apology for snooping. "Cute kid."

"Yeah, she is. Are you coming back to bed?"

Clinton got in and kissed her, rolling so she was on top of him. "So, uh, you want to have dinner sometime?"

Janelle sat back and studied him through narrowed eyes. "Look, I don't know what you're thinking, but I don't need rescuing."

"I didn't mean that. I'm—" Clinton stopped. _I'm the one who needs rescuing_ probably wasn't a great sales pitch either. "I just thought I'd like to do this again."

She sighed. "You're a nice guy, but I'm not looking to start anything. My life is already too complicated."

"I get it," said Clinton, half-disappointed, half-relieved. His life was busy too; he was in no position to raise any kind of expectations.

Janelle shifted over him, arching her back and making her breasts bounce. "You still want to?"

"Yeah. Definitely." He pulled her down and kissed her, getting turned on from the warm press of her body, making himself enjoy it for what it was.

 

*

 

He spent the rest of the day doing chores that had been piling up and running personal errands, and on Sunday, he swung by the surveillance van to make sure everything was going smoothly and ended up sending Simpson home and taking over the rest of his shift.

Work was easy. He was needed, and he knew his part.

On Monday afternoon, he was going over evidence from the stakeout with Simpson and Halajian, trying to work up grounds for a search warrant, when someone knocked on the door of the conference room. "Yeah," said Clinton, without looking around.

"Uh, Agent Jones…" It was his probie, Bradley, escorting a tough-looking woman in a scuffed leather motorcycle jacket and boots, aviator sunglasses hooked over the gold chain around her neck. She had her hands in her jeans pockets and was chewing gum, and she looked like trouble with a capital T. 

Clinton beckoned Bradley over. "Who's that?"

"Rose Leigh. Said she has a tip that will let us take down Patrick O'Leary."

"The Irish mobster?" Clinton remembered him from that wire sting Peter and Neal had pulled a couple of years back. They'd used him to catch Frank Deluca but hadn't had enough to take O'Leary down too. Clinton frowned. "She walked in off the street?"

"Just now," said Bradley. "You want me to take a statement?"

"No, I'll talk to her." Clinton gestured to the others. "Simpson, you take over here. Halajian, see if Agent Burke's free. I want him in on this."

Clinton was authorized to make deals, but Rose Leigh was setting off all kinds of alarm bells, and he wanted a second opinion. With Diana gone, that meant Peter.

 

*

 

They convened in Peter's office, five minutes later. Clinton handed Leigh a cup of FBI coffee, and she stole a post-it from Peter's desk, wrapped her gum in it and threw it in the trash, then took one sip of coffee and left it on the corner of the desk.

Clinton went to lean on the windowsill behind Peter. "What have you got for us?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, Patrick O'Leary's meeting with a fence to buy a gold Buddha that was stolen from the Asia Society Museum," said Leigh. "I know when and where the transaction's taking place. You can get him on receiving stolen goods, and from there you can get a search warrant and find evidence for whatever else he's into."

"How do you know what O'Leary's planning?" asked Peter.

Leigh looked at Clinton. "I want immunity."

"For what?" said Clinton.

She folded her arms. "I'm the fence."

A fence who would saunter into the FBI and declare herself, confident in her ability to escape unscathed. No wonder Clinton didn't trust her: she was Alex Hunter, Neal and Mozzie, all rolled into one and given braids. The dragon tattoo disappearing into her tank top was a nice touch too. 

"Do you have the item?" asked Peter.

"Would I tell you if I did? No, I don't have it yet. I'm picking it up tomorrow."

"From whom?" asked Clinton.

Leigh rocked her chair back and crossed her ankles on the corner of Peter's desk next to the coffee cup. "I won't tell you that or anything else until you give me immunity."

Clinton exchanged glances with Peter, who nodded. "You give us O'Leary, you've got immunity for dealing in stolen goods and whatever side-gigs you're running—this time. If we catch you in the future, you're going down. Now get your feet off my desk. I've got work to do."

Clinton stood up, and after a second, Leigh followed suit and trailed after him to the door. He held it for her, and when she was through, said, "Wait here. Don't touch anything."

He shut the door and turned to Peter, who smirked. "Looks like you've got yourself a CI."

"Temporary." Clinton put his hands on his hips. "She's not telling us everything."

"I know. But the Asia Society Museum wants its Buddha back, and I want O'Leary. He's eluded us far too long." Peter looked at Leigh through the glass wall, with a thoughtful expression. She stopped fidgeting with the cuff of her jacket and waved, making Peter snort under his breath. "She remind you of anyone?"

"No," said Clinton, grateful when Peter dropped it. He didn't need to be thinking like that when there was work to do, not given how Peter and Neal's partnership had turned out. "We'll get you O'Leary."

 

*

 

Clinton sent Halajian down to the coffee cart for lattes, and the three of them—Clinton, Halajian and Leigh—holed up in an interview room to plan the sting. Halajian was taking notes and acting as a buffer; given that Clinton didn't trust Leigh as far as he could throw her, he wanted a female agent present against any allegations of impropriety or exerting undue pressure.

Not that there was much risk of that. Leigh was sprawled in her chair, still picking at her cuff as if it held the answer to some cosmic mystery.

"Where's the Buddha now?" asked Clinton.

Her gaze flicked to him, then down again. "Safe. I can't tell you more than that."

"Who's the seller?"

"Seriously? I have a business to run. How long do you think that's going to last if word gets out I've been squealing to the Feds?" She sipped her coffee appreciatively. "That's more like it. You need to junk your coffee maker and get an espresso machine up in here."

"So, how is telling us about O'Leary good for business?" asked Clinton, patiently dragging her back on topic. 

She shrugged. "He's an asshole, and he's dangerous."

"Right, you only work with good, honorable criminals," said Halajian drily.

Leigh rolled her eyes.

Clinton sighed. He was starting to wonder if this whole thing was a trap, but he couldn't imagine Rose Leigh working with O'Leary, no matter how hard he tried. "Okay, how about this: do you have any proof? Why should we even believe you?"

Leigh dug a phone out of her jacket pocket and slid it across the desk. "Don't get excited, it's a burner. There's a photo of the Buddha and a text from O'Leary. I forwarded the text, but it should be enough to get you a warrant for O'Leary's phone records, right? Then you can confirm."

She'd clearly done her homework, just like Neal would have in her position.

"You can stop telling us how to do our jobs, starting now." Clinton checked the message. It listed a time and place: the backroom of a bar in Jersey. If they could prove O'Leary had sent the same message, that would be something. It was still pretty thin, but he wasn't going to let Peter down. "Okay, here's how it's going to play out. Assuming we can confirm your information, you'll meet O'Leary as planned. You'll be wearing a wire. As soon as he hands over the money—"

"He's not paying in cash," said Leigh.

"Bonds, wire transfer, whatever. As soon as he makes payment, we come in. At that stage, your job is to stay out of our way. Get under the table, if you can. We don't want this turning into a hostage situation."

Leigh bit her lip. "Believe me, neither do I."

"That's the first thing you've said I do believe."

She smirked, leaning back in her chair and watching him, the wing of her dragon tattoo like a beckoning finger. "You don't trust me."

Clinton ignored a small pulse of awareness. In another life, maybe; not in this one. "No, I don't," he said. "Prove me wrong."

 

*

 

"I can't find any record of a Rose Leigh operating as a fence in the tri-state area," said Halajian, later that afternoon, when Clinton stopped by her desk for an update.

"She might just be that good," suggested Girotti, from the next desk over.

"Or she's given us an alias." Clinton rubbed the back of his head, where his sense of impending doom was coalescing into a tight knot. "Has the warrant come through for O'Leary's phone records yet? I want to know if he sent that text message, and the number he sent it to. Then I want everything we can get on the recipient—either it's her or she's covering for someone."

"On it," said Halajian.

"While you're at it, send a team in to plant cameras at the rendezvous," added Clinton. "I want eyes on the whole thing and undercover agents on all exits. And don't tell Leigh—the less she knows, the more natural she'll act in front of O'Leary." He wasn't taking any chances with an unarmed civilian, even if she was a criminal.

Halajian nodded and made some notes. "She'll be in the van before the sting. I'll make sure we have video feed operational but the monitors switched off until go time." 

 

*

 

"I'm so wired," said Leigh into her watch, in the van the next afternoon.

"Yeah, we've never heard that one before," said Halajian. "Audio check confirmed."

Clinton had stationed himself between Rose Leigh and the door. He caught her eye now, willing her to settle down and pay attention. Remembering a thousand similar pep talks between Peter and Caffrey—and the crushing moment word had come through that Caffrey was dead. It had been a con, but it could just as easily have been real. He focused on Leigh. "Remember, backup is twenty seconds away. And we need O'Leary to clearly indicate he knows the Buddha is stolen. Without that, we've got nothing."

"We've already gone over this," said Leigh. "Like, twice."

"Don't go off-script," continued Clinton, talking over her. "Just keep it simple, and make the deal."

"Then say the activation phrase, and boom, instant SWAT team. I've got it." She was fidgeting with her cuff again. "Let's get on with this. If I'm late, he'll be suspicious."

Clinton studied her. Something was wrong. Maybe he should call off the whole operation. "Are you okay?"

There was a slight shift in Leigh's demeanor, as if she were checking herself, and she visibly relaxed. "Aw, you're worried about me. That's sweet."

"I'm worried about losing O'Leary and wasting thousands of taxpayers' dollars. SWAT teams don't come cheap," said Clinton sternly. He handed her the bag with the Buddha, fitted with its very own hidden GPS tracker, and stood aside. "Let's get this over with."

"Finally." She jumped out of the van and crossed the road without looking back.

Clinton shut the van door, and Halajian turned on the monitors, including visuals of the street outside, the bar's front and rear exits, and the back room where Leigh was to meet O'Leary. They watched as she veered away from the front entrance and retrieved a package taped to the base of a fire hydrant.

"What is that?" said Clinton, peering at the screen, trying to get a clearer view.

Halajian said, "Is it a gun?"

"She must have planted it before we got here," said Girotti. "You want to abort, boss?"

"She's already inside," said Clinton. "Dammit!" He shrugged out of his suit jacket and took off his tie. "I'm going after her."

"O'Leary's in," said Agent Weiss, who was on the rear exit. "He's brought muscle. One guy, armed."

Clinton reached for his leather jacket, hanging on the back of his chair, and snapped his fingers at Girotti. "Give me your sunglasses." It wasn't much of a cover, but it was better than going in looking like a Fed.

On the screen, O'Leary and his goon, who was easily six foot four, entered the meeting room through one door as Leigh entered through another. O'Leary stopped. "Who are you, girlie?"

"Rose Leigh. I'm here on behalf of Lefty T."

"I don't do business with strangers." O'Leary's hand was still on the doorknob. The goon loomed to his left, the bulge of his gun obvious under his jacket.

Leigh held up the bag with the Buddha. "I have the package you ordered."

"What the hell is going on?" said Clinton.

"Lefty T could be the seller," said Halajian. "Could be T for Trenton, as in Trenton Hart." O'Leary's original text message had been sent to a phone linked to a credit card for Trenton Hart, a small-time thief who'd gotten out of prison six months ago. Clinton had figured Leigh was working with him, but now he had no idea.

On screen, Leigh took the Buddha out of its bag and set it on the table. "Beautiful, right? The China Institute must really miss it. And now, for the agreed price, it can be yours."

"It belongs to the Asia Society Museum, not the China Institute," said O'Leary. "Stolen three nights ago."

"We've got him," said Clinton. "Now he just needs to take possession."

"And I made my deal with Lefty T, not with you," O'Leary was saying.

The back door of the van opened, revealing Weiss holding an older man by the upper arm. "Agent Jones, I caught this man sneaking in the back of the bar. Something didn't seem right."

"This is an FBI operation—" started Clinton.

"That's what he said," said the older guy, jerking his thumb at Weiss. "Nothing to do with me. Let me go, I'll be on my way." He glanced past Clinton at the monitors, shook off Weiss and climbed in for a closer look. "Hey, that's my niece."

"Ms. Leigh is assisting us in taking down O'Leary," said Girotti.

"She's doing _what_?!"

Girotti glanced at him. "Fencing the item."

"Rosalie's not a fence. She's an accounts executive at Newman Stein, the software company." He clutched his head. "Fuck, this is my fault. I'm the one who should be facing down Paddy O'Leary, not her. She has no idea how dangerous he is. Let me go, let me go, I've got to get her out of there." He tried pushing his way to the door, but Weiss blocked him.

Girotti was already bringing up the Newman Stein company website. "Rosalie Hart," he read. "Accounts executive, Education Division." Over his shoulder, Clinton caught a glimpse of the photo: Rose Leigh in a business suit, smiling and respectable. She looked like a completely different person.

"I'm going in _now_." Clinton dropped Girotti's sunglasses and reached for his service weapon.

"Let me," said Leigh's uncle. "Paddy's expecting me." He struggled in Weiss' hold. "Dammit, would you let me go and rescue my niece?"

"You stay here," said Clinton. "We've got this."

Halajian caught his arm as he passed. "O'Leary just made the deal." 

"Well, that's just the cost of doing business," said Leigh over the wire. The activation phrase.

"Go," yelled Clinton into his radio. "Go now!" Within seconds, SWAT was swarming in the front door of the bar. Clinton pushed past Weiss, pointing to the old guy and saying as he went, "Keep an eye on him." And then he was following hard on SWAT's heels, gun in hand, dreading what he'd find.

 

*

 

Nearly three hours later, he stood outside the interview room, smoothing down his tie and watching Rosalie Hart stare out the window as if she were planning a Caffrey-style escape. Try as he might, he couldn't resolve the photo on Newman Stein's website with the woman in there, with her leather jacket, tattoos and _attitude_ , but soon that wouldn't be his problem anymore. Thank God. 

She turned as he entered. "How long do I have to stay here? I gave you O'Leary. Can't I just give my statement and go? I'm pretty sure you don't have grounds to detain me, and if you do, you could at least bring me a sandwich and a decent cup of coffee."

"Sit down," said Clinton, and waited while she did. Then he started pacing. "Your uncle, Trenton Hart AKA Lefty T, told us everything: O'Leary was running an illegal gambling establishment, your uncle got in deep and O'Leary forced him to steal the Buddha to pay off his debt. When Lefty went to deliver, you locked him in the basement."

Rosalie's shoulders slumped. "I was trying to keep him out of this, dammit. He already has two strikes."

"We know. In light of his assistance in taking down O'Leary, we're not charging him for the theft, but the FBI has its sights on him now. Make sure he cleans up his act from now on."

"I will." She let out a deep sigh and looked up, serious. "Thank you."

"Explain this." Clinton tossed the bundle of cash they'd found at the crime scene onto the table. Twenty thousand dollars. The video proved it hadn't come from O'Leary, and Clinton was betting it had been in the package Rosalie had taken from the fire hydrant. The package his team had mistaken for a gun. 

She picked up the cash and tapped it on the table. "You needed O'Leary to buy the Buddha, but the agreed payment was Uncle Trent's gambling chits. I was trying to keep Trent off the radar, so I just—I swapped out the cash for the chits when the SWAT team came in. If I'd known Uncle Trent was in trouble sooner, I would have got a loan and paid his damned debts, but I didn't know until I found the Buddha, and by then it was too late."

Clinton nodded. That was pretty much what he'd figured. "That just leaves one question." He halted across from her and put his hands on his hips, glaring. "What the hell were you thinking? You walked into the FBI and falsely identified yourself as a fence!"

Her chin came up. "What were you going to do, arrest me for impersonating a criminal?"

"No, we put a wire on you and sent you into a sting with a dangerous psychopath," said Clinton. Just saying it made his blood run cold. He ran his hand over his face.

"I was going to do that anyway. This way I had backup and an exit strategy," said Rosalie, as if that were totally reasonable. 

Clinton threw up his hands. "I don't believe you! Do you actually have a death wish?"

"I helped you take down O'Leary," said Rosalie, standing up and facing him across the table. "Why are you yelling at me?"

"Because you lied," shouted Clinton. "You could be on a slab in the morgue right now." Just down the hall was a whole row of pictures: Siegel's was only the latest, and _he'd_ been a trained agent, not a software account executive without a clue. "If anything had gone wrong— I was responsible."

"Nothing went wrong." Rosalie frowned. "Hey, are you okay? Here sit down, breathe. I'll get you a glass of water."

"I'm fine," snapped Clinton. He turned on his heels, slamming the door as he left. Halajian was at her desk when he stalked past. 

"Everything okay, boss?" she asked.

"Fine," he said, trying to keep his voice even. He turned back. "Do me a favor and take Rosalie Hart's statement. She's in interview two."

"Sure thing," she said, reaching for her legal pad. "You look stressed—maybe have a cup of coffee? And, uh, Burke wants to see you."

Oh hell. Clinton took a deep breath and went to the men's room to wash his face and get himself together before he went to take his lumps.

 

*

 

Clinton knew as soon as he saw Peter's face. "You heard what happened."

"Girotti filled me in." Peter turned away from his computer and beckoned him in. 

Clinton tensed. Girotti was new. A good agent, but if he was the kind of guy who ran up the chain of command and told tales when things went wrong… If Clinton couldn't trust him… 

Peter saw his reaction and added, "He didn't volunteer anything. I asked."

Clinton nodded. Took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Peter. It could have gone real bad, real fast. It was my fault."

Peter waved him into a seat. "She fooled me too. Next time someone walks in off the street with a hot tip like that, let's dig a little deeper."

"No kidding." Clinton sat down.

"On the upside, no one was hurt, and you got O'Leary."

"You heard he's making book on the horses now." 

Peter smirked. "Well, we put his regular place out of business. What choice did he have?" He laced his hands and tapped his thumbs together like Hughes used to. "What about the girl?"

"Rosalie Hart. Halajian's taking her statement, then we're letting her go."

"She's got guts."

"She's a walking nightmare. Who does that?" Clinton still got queasy thinking about it. Peter might be able to let the screw-up slide, but Clinton couldn't forgive himself so easily. He was head of the team; that meant staying on top of everything, keeping everyone safe. 

Peter was watching him like he could read his mind, but when he spoke, it wasn't about the case. "You know, it's a dangerous thing to care about people. You open yourself up to a world of heartache. But to stop caring—that's worse."

Did he mean Rosalie caring about her uncle, or Clinton caring about the team? Or was he just recalling all those times Caffrey had given him grief when they'd worked together? Clinton didn't know, so he didn't answer, and after a moment, Peter shook himself out of it and gave Clinton a shrewd, narrow-eyed look.

"Come for dinner tonight. We'd be glad to see you."

Clinton stood up. He knew it was a pity invitation, but a home-cooked meal with friends was what he needed tonight. It beat going home to an empty apartment and whatever was lurking in his refrigerator. "Okay, thanks. Just so long as there's no shop talk." 

He wasn't in the mood to be teased about his non-criminal informant.

Peter gave him a small, sympathetic grin. "Promise."

 

*

 

Clinton got a ride with Peter, figuring he might have a few drinks and he could take a car service home. When they walked in, Caffrey looked up from where he was kneeling on the living room floor. 

"Hey. Tread carefully." The carpet was strewn with toys and jigsaw puzzle pieces, and he had four open puzzle boxes beside him. 

"What happened here?" said Peter.

"I turned my back for five seconds, tops, and we had a toysplosion." Neal shrugged. "Could've been worse: no one choked, and at least Satchmo wasn't around to eat anything. Now El and Monster Boy are in the kitchen, feeding him something more nutritious than cardboard, and I'm dealing with the aftermath."

Peter picked his way across the carpet and bent to kiss him hello. It was a chaste peck on the lips, but then they locked gazes, both smiling softly, and Clinton looked away to give them some privacy. He tried to remember when he'd last felt that kind of intense pleasure at someone's presence. That new-relationship buzz.

"Well, there you go," said Peter, breaking the silence. He stirred the pile of jigsaw pieces on the floor with his toe. "Looks like the boy created a problem uniquely suited to your talents."

"It's not exactly a challenge to differentiate between Van Gogh's _Houses at Auvers_ , a photo of kittens, and a cartoon of a farm yard." Neal snorted. "If my friends in Paris could see me now. Hey, Jones."

"Hey." Clinton stopped himself from calling Neal "Caffrey" just in time. It was Victor Moreau now. It still felt weird calling him that, though. "How's it going?"

"As you can see." Neal spread his hands. "Domestic bliss-slash-chaos. You good?"

"Can't complain." Clinton shrugged, remembering a certain conversation over whiskey a long time ago. He still had it pretty good, even if it felt like he was running in a hamster wheel sometimes.

Elizabeth came through, carrying the baby and an old teddy bear in her arms. Mikey was yawning and rubbing his eyes, but he grinned when he saw Peter and Neal, and called, "Dada, Papa," trailing off into chatter that Clinton couldn't make sense of, but which made Neal say, "That's right, buddy. You really did."

Elizabeth was smiling too. "Hey, hon, Clinton. Dinner's about half an hour away." She tossed a small flat object to Neal—another puzzle piece. "I found this tucked inside his t-shirt."

Neal stood up. "Where else are you hiding them, puzzle smuggler? Behind your ears? Up your nose?" He took the baby from El and bounced him, making him squeal delightedly. "My turn to put you to bed."

Elizabeth tucked the bear in the crook of his arm and put her hand on Neal's back in an unmistakably possessive gesture, leaning into him slightly, and Clinton couldn't help the weird flip-flop in his stomach. Peter and Neal together wasn't actually that weird—now that he'd had time to get used to the idea, it seemed like an inevitable extension of their working partnership—but he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to seeing Elizabeth Burke and Neal be so obviously in love, especially in front of Peter. 

But Peter was beaming at them with no sign of jealousy. "How about I take him, and you finish up here?"

"He's had his bath," said Elizabeth. "He just needs a story and bed."

"Okay, fine," said Neal. "I guess these puzzles won't sort themselves." He handed Mikey over.

"Come here, kiddo, do your worst," said Peter, kissing his son's head. "This suit needs dry-cleaning anyway." He took him upstairs, and Elizabeth went back in the kitchen. 

Clinton perched on the arm of the couch and looked at Neal. "You are the luckiest guy I ever knew."

"Trust me, I'm well aware." Neal returned to the floor and started sorting puzzle pieces again while he spoke. "Living the dream."

Clinton watched him, trying to pinpoint what had changed. It wasn't just the beard or the absence of hats; in the past, he'd always given the impression he was being friendly to cover up some illegal scheme he was plotting. Now the smiles were real.

Clinton wondered what Rosalie was like when she wasn't conning the FBI. Whether there was a real person under her tough swagger, or if she was always flipping off the world like that. What would she make of Peter, Elizabeth and Neal living together? And what would they make of her? Peter hadn't pegged her as a con, but Neal was from that world—would he?

He shook himself. She was trouble. She was not his problem. There was no reason for him to see her again. He picked a red ball patterned with yellow stars off the couch. "How can I help?"

Neal smiled. "The toys go in the hamper by the fireplace."

"Got it." Clinton started gathering together the debris from Mikey's toysplosion, and then opened his mouth and asked, despite himself, "Peter tell you about our latest case?"

"He said you took down Patrick O'Leary. Congratulations."

"Thanks." Clinton dumped a plastic train and some board books into the toy hamper. "Did he mention our CI?"

Neal looked up from sorting puzzle pieces, his expression eloquent.

"Yeah," said Clinton. "I can't stop thinking—I sent a civilian into the middle of an FBI sting. If anything had gone wrong, it would've been on me."

"Answer me this." Neal sat back on his heels. "When you heard how I died, did you think it was Peter's fault?"

"Of course not, but that was different." For starters, Peter had been more devastated than anyone; accusing him of being responsible would have been downright cruel. " _He_ blamed himself."

"I know," said Neal seriously, not trying to deflect or make excuses, like he actually understood the damage he'd done. He really had changed. Then he blinked and smiled. "It's Con Artistry 101: first impressions are everything. When you met her, she was lying, so your instincts told you she couldn't be trusted. She said she was a criminal, which confirmed it. And you invested in that position when you sent her into the sting. It's human nature to want to defend our most cherished beliefs. Counter-evidence just makes us double down."

"Climate change deniers," said Clinton.

"Right," said Neal. "When they experience cognitive dissonance between what they believe and what science says, they're more likely to denigrate the science than change their minds. Like you—you want to keep believing your CI's a con. The difference is, you're too good a detective to discount the evidence."

Clinton frowned. "She lied."

"Everyone lies. She had her reasons." Neal waved that aside. "So you're stuck in this unresolved situation with conflicting answers: it's your fault, it's her fault. And if there's anything people hate—especially federal agents—it's not having an answer that makes sense. It's like a chord progression in music that keeps changing and never resolves."

"Drives you crazy." Clinton sighed. "Yeah, so, what do I do?" It was weird to be asking for life advice from Caffrey of all people, but Neal had cleaned up his act so much, and Clinton was the one falling behind. And at least Neal was taking him seriously, rather than teasing him for getting conned.

"Resolve it." Neal shrugged and went back to the jigsaw puzzles. "Or get your Zen on, and accept the paradox. I mean, it's done now: you got O'Leary, the girl saved her uncle. Pat yourself on the back and call it a win."

"Yeah," said Clinton. "It's a win." He might have said more, but just then Elizabeth came through to offer them drinks. Neal closed the lids on the puzzles and declared them done, so they moved into the dining room, where Neal and Elizabeth—and Peter, when he came down again—tossed around ideas for a future, hypothetical vacation to Paris ("If we can all coordinate our schedules, and the Monster isn't being too monstrous," said El), and Clinton drank his beer and contributed when he could, slowly relaxing and letting the afternoon's misadventure go.

 

*

 

It came back to haunt him throughout the next week. He'd be in a meeting, or in the van on a stakeout, or one time running on the treadmill at the FBI gym, and he'd find himself thinking about Rosalie Hart, or reliving the cold, sick tension from the moment he discovered the experienced fence he'd sent into the sting was actually an innocent civilian. And then he'd start arguing with himself about how innocent could she really be. It was frustrating and distracting, and it was interfering with his work.

Neal's advice was sound: if Clinton couldn't let it go, he had to resolve it. He had to see Hart.

He parked outside Newman Stein's head office at quarter to five one evening, sat in his car and waited, feeling like he was on a stakeout. Wondering if he should have had her brought into the office, except that this wasn't strictly government business. And no one else needed to know about it.

After half an hour, when she still hadn't showed, it was starting to feel borderline inappropriate, but he only wanted to talk to her. This wasn't that kind of a thing. He'd pigeonholed her the moment he met her; he just wanted to replace that first impression with a new one.

By the time she made her appearance, it was nearly six, and Clinton was leaning on his car, sweating slightly in the early evening sunlight. 

He hardly recognized her, even from her website photo. Her braids were clipped back, and she looked relaxed and confident—light years from the spiky fidgeting of her criminal alter ego. She was wearing a short-sleeved cream blouse made of something silky, brown pants and heels. No motorcycle boots here. There were gold earrings dangling down her neck. She was with another woman and a man, all of them talking at once, laughing. 

Rosalie Hart was a civilian, and she was damned attractive, and Clinton had no business being here. He couldn't trust his own motives. He should go. 

Naturally, right then, she spotted him. Her eyebrows went up, and she waved goodbye to her friends and came over to him. "Agent Jones. Were you looking for me?"

"I was just—" Clinton bit off an excuse. "Yeah."

"Is everything okay? O'Leary's going away, right?" Her earrings were gold alligators, dangling by their tails.

Clinton cleared his throat. "It's looking like eleven counts against him. We've got a solid case."

"Great." She hitched her bag more firmly onto her shoulder. "And the museum has its Buddha back."

"Once the case is closed. Until then, it's evidence."

"Right." She raised her eyebrows and smiled. "So—?"

Somewhere in there was the punk who'd put her feet on Peter's desk and complained about the FBI coffee. Who'd faced down O'Leary. But looking at her now, there was no sign of that woman. She looked respectable through and through. It just made it worse. 

"Why did you do it?" blurted Clinton, unable to keep it from sounding like an accusation.

She frowned. "You know why."

"No," said Clinton. "You're obviously smart, you have a good job, but somehow when you found yourself in trouble with an Irish mobster, the best option you could think of was misrepresenting yourself to the FBI. I _don't_ know why."

"What was I supposed to do, go to the police?"

"Why not?"

Impatience flashed across her face. "Have you even been paying attention? What are the chances I would have got past 'My uncle who, by the way, is black and has a record'?"

Clinton's temper flared. "If that's your opinion of law enforcement, why even bother with the leather jacket and the boots? You didn't think we'd buy you as a fence in a business suit."

"The leather wasn't for your benefit." She was angry now too. The alligators shimmered as she stuck her chin out. "It helped me stay in character."

"As a con artist," said Clinton.

"As someone who wasn't freaking the hell out, okay?" She took a sharp breath and lowered her voice. "I was scared. I knew it was dangerous. But it's family—you do whatever it takes."

"You are the most impossible woman I've ever met. You have no idea—" Clinton shook his head, lost for words and exasperated beyond belief.

"So, you basically tracked me down to yell at me some more." Her lips twisted into a humorless smile.

Clinton scowled. "I guess I did." 

"And are you done?"

He glared at her. "Yeah."

"Okay." She hitched her bag strap again, turned and walked calmly to the nearest subway entrance.

Clinton sank back against his car and ran his hand over his face, feeling his righteous indignation deflate. He didn't know what had just happened, but he was pretty sure it hadn't resolved anything.

 

*

 

Clinton's neighborhood bar was relatively quiet that evening, since it was a Wednesday, but there was a friendly hum of conversation, and the music was more current. He ordered a beer and looked around for someone to talk to. A woman sitting alone at a table looked up from her phone, caught his eye and smiled. She seemed nice. But something stopped Clinton from accepting her silent invitation. He didn't want to end up going home with someone when he was worked up about someone else, even if it wasn't that kind of worked up, and he wasn't in the mood for making small talk with a stranger just for the sake of it. 

He smiled back noncommittally and saw with relief that his upstairs neighbor, Derek, was at another table with some guys Clinton had met in passing a couple of times. He went and hung with them instead, listening to them talk about sports and summer movies he probably wouldn't have time to see. After two beers, he excused himself and went home.

He slept for eight hours, deep dreamless sleep, and woke feeling calm like a desert or an empty room. Maybe he'd resolved it after all. Maybe this was Zen.

 

*

 

For the next couple of weeks, Clinton threw himself even deeper into work. He made sure they covered every angle, and they closed three cases that had been dragging on longer than they should have. He testified at O'Leary's preliminary hearing which, despite the defense council's protestations, went exactly according to plan. He stayed up late writing reports and emails. And he spent hours and hours in the van, waiting for someone to do something incriminating. But the emptiness was starting to feel like loneliness, and no matter how hard he worked, he couldn't fill it up.

It was almost a relief Diana wasn't around; she would have noticed something was off, for sure.

Halajian knocked on his office door one Friday afternoon. "Agent Jones, are we still on for the Laurentin stakeout tonight?"

Clinton quickly Alt-Tabbed away from the account executives page of the Newman Stein website, back to the email he was supposed to be writing. "Unless we get lucky and they actually deliver the stolen paintings before then, then yeah. Graveyard shift, midnight till eight A.M."

"You know, as the boss, you do have the power to assign the all-nighters to someone else, if you want," said Halajian, mildly.

"I don't mind." Part of being a leader was putting a good face on dreary tasks, instilling a sense of purpose and morale in the team, so he didn't complain about the van anymore, but he still couldn't bring himself to be whole-heartedly enthusiastic like Peter. The van was what it was.

Halajian nodded. "In that case, I'm going to go home now and take a nap. I'll see you later."

"I'll bring coffee," promised Clinton. Pre-emptive rest was a smart move, but he had too much to do to punch out now. He could work on his sleep deficit tomorrow. And in the meantime, he could stop obsessing about Rosalie Hart.

 

*

 

It was a long, boring shift, with no sign of the stolen art. They didn't talk much apart from the occasional pithy exchange about all the suspicious activity that wasn't happening. Halajian wasn't the chatty type, and Clint just felt weary. He wondered if he was coming down with something.

At six he went on his second coffee run of the night, and at seven, Halajian got distracted sending texts, and Clinton started fantasizing about lying down and closing his eyes. It didn't have to be in a bed—any halfway horizontal surface would do.

At five to eight, Simpson and Bradley showed up to relieve them. Clinton sent Halajian home and caught the guys up, which only took a few seconds, and then he stepped out of the van, stretched out his back and rubbed his face. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and stopped.

Rosalie Hart was leaning against a nearby building with her hands dug into her pockets. She was in jeans and a scoop-neck yellow t-shirt, her braids loose, and she looked like a different person again: not the con from the office nor the put-together businesswoman from Newman Stein. 

For a moment, Clinton thought he might be hallucinating. He walked over to her. "Hi."

"Beth said I'd find you here." Her brown gaze was warm; a smile played around the corner of her mouth.

"Beth?"

"Agent Halajian," said Rosalie. "She also said you have zero social life, and you've cooled off enough that if I ask you out, you might say yes."

Clinton made a mental note to have words with Halajian about interfering in her boss' personal life. Then he focused on the woman in front of him. For two weeks he'd been telling himself that it was inappropriate to be attracted to her, given his position and what she'd done. That whatever her profession, she was a con at heart and he didn't know her—he couldn't ever know her. And that after shouting at her on two separate occasions, he'd already blown it anyway. But he hadn't been able to get her out of his mind, and he knew now it wasn't because of cognitive dissonance. She was smart and courageous and stubborn and full of life. She looked fantastic. And she'd come looking for him.

"I didn't think I'd made that good an impression," he said.

She grinned. "You mean with the yelling? I deserved it. It's the cost of doing business, right?" 

_The cost of doing business_ had been her activation phrase during the sting. Clinton started to smile back.

"Can I buy you breakfast, Agent Jones?"

He tried to think logically. Her uncle was a criminal on his second strike; if Lefty T screwed up again, that could blow back on him. But he just didn't care. This was no time for logic. "It's Clinton. And yeah, but keep in mind I've been up all night, and go easy on me, okay?"

She laughed and took his arm, making him so aware of her he could barely walk straight. They went a block and a half to the diner of her choice, and by the time they got there, the brain fog from spending eight hours staring at a CCTV screen had dispersed.

Over generous plates of waffles and bacon, he said, "You talked to Halajian about me?"

"When she took my statement, I asked what your deal was. She told me what happened with Agent Burke's CI." She grimaced. "I'm sorry I freaked you out."

"It's okay," said Clinton. "It was my fault. I should have checked you out more thoroughly."

Mischief lit her face. "There's still time."

Clinton put down his fork and studied her, comparing the woman in front of him with her past incarnations, feeling like he was finally getting a handle on who she was underneath and liking what he saw. A lot. He licked his lips. "What happened to your dragon tattoo?"

When he'd met her, the tattoo had disappeared into the neckline of her tank.

"It was fake." She smirked and rested her elbows on the table, leaning in. "Disappointed?"

The last of Clinton's restraint melted away. "I was hoping I'd get to see the rest of it."

"Well, I do have other tattoos." 

Her tone and the curve of her lower lip were mesmerizing. He reached for her hand, needing to touch her, and she slid her palm across his and scratched her nails lightly down the inside of his wrist, making his breath catch. 

"I knew you were trouble the moment I laid eyes on you," he said, and she laughed.

 

*

 

He went home alone and slept most of the day, and then they met up for dinner and a movie and it was like they knew each other already. Like he trusted her. They'd been on opposite sides, and somehow they'd met in the middle. She told him about her family and work, and he explained about the changes in the White Collar unit over the last year—how the once close-knit team had been torn apart and rearranged. He hadn't talked about that with anyone before.

He bought movie tickets in good faith, but as soon as the lights went down she pulled his arm around her shoulder and snuggled into him, and he forgot about the screen and kissed her for the first time, her mouth lush and warm and wicked. They spent the whole movie making out and spilled out of the movie theatre afterward, laughing.

"That was great," said Rosalie. "Those special effects were really special! And I loved that scene with those guys."

"Five stars," agreed Clinton, pulling her out of the bustle of people, around the corner where it was quiet. He put his hands on her hips and looked down at her. "Ten stars."

She reached up and kissed him. "Take me home with you."

They hailed a taxi, and when they reached his apartment, she looked around while he dug out a bottle of wine. 

"Nice action figures," she called, teasing but not mean. "You should meet my brother. You could get into the whole DC versus Marvel debate."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah, you'd like him. He was mad about me getting involved in Uncle Trent's mess with O'Leary too. When he found out, he seriously tried to send me to my room over the phone."

Clinton put down the wineglasses he was holding and pulled her into his arms, holding her slim, strong body tight as if he could keep her safe that way. "I've been thinking about you ever since that day."

"Yeah? And how much of that was imaginary shouting?" She pulled his shirt free of his pants and slid her hands up his back, making it hard to think. 

He smiled against her hair. "Some of it. I was fighting pretty hard to stay in denial."

"Well, for what it's worth, I was thinking about you too. No denial at all." She raised her head and kissed him, bit his lower lip. "Want to see my tattoo?"

"Desperately." He led her into the bedroom, and she unzipped her dress and let it slide to the floor. There was a stylized piranha on her hip. "What is it with you and things with teeth?" muttered Clinton, tracing it with his fingertip, but he didn't wait for an answer, just shrugged out of his clothes. They went to bed, their bodies moving together seamlessly, and he didn't have to make the best of anything because it was already damned near perfect. 

Afterwards, they lay tangled together under a sheet, her fingers still smoothing across his body as if she were learning him by feel, setting off little shivers of pleasure. Clinton's mind was idling comfortably, thinking about the crazy circumstances that had brought them here, when an unwelcome thought hit him. He must have tensed, because Rosalie pulled back to meet his eye. "What?"

And really, he should pretend it was nothing. This was a first date, a really good first date, and they'd just had phenomenal sex. The last thing he wanted to do was risk ruining the mood. But he needed her perspective, so he said what he was thinking anyway, trusting her to be okay with it. "When we met outside your work, what you said about the police. You really think that applies to the FBI too?"

He couldn't believe that it did, but what if it was his own personal climate change denial—cognitive dissonance masking the truth?

Rosalie blinked, visibly shifting gears. "I don't know," she said slowly. "I couldn't risk it."

"It's just that the FBI's a big part of who I am. And I know—I _know_ the system isn't perfect, but I still believe it should be, and that it's better than no system at all." He sat up a bit. "And I really like you. I don't want that to be a problem."

"It won't be," said Rosalie. "I don't know about the FBI as a whole, but I do know that you could have arrested Uncle Trent for stealing the Buddha, and you didn't. Even with his record, you gave him a chance."

"I didn't do that to impress you," said Clinton quickly, before she started thinking it had been some big romantic gesture.

"I know." Her smile warmed her eyes. "That's what makes it so great." And she pulled him back down to lie with her.

 

*

 

On Wednesday Clinton knocked on Peter's office door. "You got a minute?"

"Jones. What's up?" There was a delay before Peter looked up from the files on his desk, but then Clinton had his full attention.

Clinton came in and closed the door. "A couple of things I want to talk to you about. First, you remember Trenton Hart?"

"Trenton Hart. O'Leary coerced him into stealing the gold Buddha," said Peter. "I remember."

"We didn't charge him," said Clinton, "so I thought you should know that I'm seeing his niece now." They'd spent most of the weekend together and last night, Rosalie had asked Clinton home to meet her family on Saturday. There was no denying it was a relationship. 

"His niece?" Peter did the math and grinned. "White Collar agents and their CIs, huh?"

"She's an account executive," said Clinton, rolling his eyes, but he grinned too. He was doing all right; he could handle a little ribbing.

"Well, I'm glad to hear it," said Peter. "It's about time you had something in your life outside of work. How's the uncle doing?"

"He's been going to Gamblers' Anonymous. Rosalie's brother's keeping an eye on him."

"Okay." Peter nodded. "Well, Diana's going to be in town next week. Why don't you bring Rosalie to dinner at our place on Friday, so we can all meet her?"

"Sounds great," said Clinton. "I'll ask her." He picked at his thumbnail. That was the easy one out of the way. 

"Was there something else?" asked Peter, after a moment.

"Yeah." Clinton took a deep breath. "You know, I always thought I'd follow in your footsteps, here in the White Collar unit. I've learned a lot from you—not just law enforcement, but compassion and good judgment too. You're a good boss."

"You're leaving."

Clinton made himself meet Peter's eye. "I'm thinking about transferring to OPR next time there's a vacancy. I believe in what we do here at the Bureau, and I think it's important someone makes sure we keep doing it right."

It was hard to say, especially in light of Peter's history with OPR in general and Garrett Fowler in particular. But someone had to stop corruption like that from taking root, there and throughout the FBI.

"OPR." Peter took a moment to digest that, then nodded. "That sounds like a good fit. You'll be sorely missed here, of course, but OPR can always use good, principled agents, and you're one of the best I know. If you need me to make a call, you just say the word."

Clinton breathed again. "Thanks, Peter. That means a lot."

"Whatever you need." Peter stood and came round to lean against the front of his desk. "We'll have to talk about your replacement when the time comes. Give me a few days to think about it, and we'll sit down. And in the meantime, Clinton, don't forget about dinner next week."

"We'll be there," said Clinton, standing to shake Peter's hand. It was like deciding to leave home, but he knew in his heart it was the right move.

 

*

 

"You ready?" he asked.

"Ready for anything." Rosalie smiled. They were standing on the Burkes' stoop, but he wanted to kiss her neck where the sunlight was playing off her alligator earrings. Kiss her lips and the hollow of her throat.

He settled for taking her hand and was just about to knock when the door opened. 

"I thought I heard a car pull up," said Peter, beaming at them. "Come in, come in. Good to see you again, Rosalie. Caught any more mobsters lately?"

"You know, it's weird, but no one's pushing me to pursue that line of work, even though I have a hundred-percent success rate. Oh, hey, I could be a bounty hunter," she said, like it was the best idea ever. Clinton groaned, and she smirked. "It's okay, babe. You can be my backup."

He nodded. "You're on. If you become a bounty hunter, I'll quit the Bureau and we can team up."

Peter ushered them into the living room, where Diana was standing in the archway talking to Elizabeth, while Neal and Mozzie sat on the floor keeping Theo and Mikey entertained. Satchmo was lying on his mat in the corner, alert for the possibility of spilled food. It was cozy but crowded, and Clinton was glad he'd already explained who was who.

"Hi," said Rosalie, waving to the room at large. "The token straight people have arrived."

"I'm straight," said Elizabeth, breaking off her conversation with Diana. "And Mozzie, I think? Yeah? Too soon to say for the kids, but that still puts us in the majority. Sorry, guys." She grinned and came over to greet them. "I'm Elizabeth. You must be Rosalie."

"The one with the tactless assumptions. Sorry." Rosalie sounded cheerfully unabashed, though she did grip Clinton's hand a little tighter.

"Pfft, that's nothing." Elizabeth took her other hand. "It's so good to meet you. Why don't you two sit down. Peter was just about to get everyone drinks."

They took the couch, and Diana picked her way across the clutter of toys and people to perch on the coffee table and say hi. Rosalie smiled and asked about Theo, setting off a string of toddler anecdotes, and Clinton watched her and Diana talk and laugh, glad to see they were genuinely getting along. He'd forgotten what it was like being at a social occasion with a partner, exchanging smiles and reassuring little touches, being _together_. It felt good.

He looked up and caught Neal watching him. "What?"

"Just admiring your resolution-slash-Zen-enlightenment," said Neal, with a grin. Then he raised his eyebrows. "So, Clinton, I hear you're planning a career change."

"White Collar just doesn't have the adrenaline thrills it used to," Clinton told him. "With one recent exception. And we've had some good people move up the ranks since you left, so you don't have to worry—the team will still have Peter's back."

Peter arrived with a tray of drinks in time to catch that last part. "I don't need a posse. It's the FBI, not the wild west."

"I never noticed much difference," muttered Neal, accepting a glass of wine.

Peter nudged him with his knee and smiled down fondly. "That's because your sheriff's badge was made of plastic. I'll be fine."

"And if not, there are ways and means, Suit," said Mozzie, pausing in the book he was reading to Theo. "There are always ways and means."

Diana moved to the couch next to Clinton so she could join in the general conversation. "You're leaving White Collar?"

"Transferring to OPR." Clinton braced himself for disapproval. Diana had left him in charge, and Neal wasn't completely off-base about how the FBI had treated Peter over the years. Which was part of the point. 

But Diana just sighed and clinked her beer bottle against his. "New horizons. End of an era. We had a good run."

"The best," said Peter, reaching out his bottle to join the toast. "I couldn't have asked for a better team."

"Well, we may not have Paris, but we'll always have the van," said Clinton, wrinkling his nose. "I have spent way too much time in that thing."

"It does smell bad," agreed Rosalie. "I noticed that, even while I was trying not to freak out. You guys should get one of those little air freshener trees."

"I always said that," said Neal. "Didn't I say that?" He reached across and shook Rosalie's hand. "From one ex-CI to another, welcome to the White Collar alumni association."

"Thanks," she said. "Happy to be here. Victor AKA Neal, right?"

"I strongly object to being included in such an organization, official or otherwise," said Mozzie. "I have never willingly aided, abetted or cooperated in any way with a government-run—"

"Relax, Moz, I wasn't including you," interrupted Neal. He put his wine safely aside, picked up Mikey, who was starting to whimper, and rubbed his back.

"Oh." Mozzie pouted. "Well, fine. You always did take my scopious contributions for granted."

Elizabeth appeared in the archway. "Dinner is served," she said. "It's just a chicken and almond salad and a ton of finger food. We're auditioning a new caterer."

"There may be questionnaires in the intermission before dessert," said Neal. "I'm going to put this little guy to bed before he goes nuclear. Here, buddy, kiss Momma goodnight."

Mikey started crying.

"I'll give you a hand." Peter scooped up the old teddy bear and a toy lion from the floor, and they went upstairs. Everyone else started toward the dining room, with Mozzie and Diana herding Theo between them, distracting him from Mikey's departure.

Clinton took advantage of the bustle to check in with Rosalie. "You okay?"

"Great." She leaned into him, and her alligators shimmered. "I'm not sure about the short guy, but everyone else is cool."

"Very discerning." Clinton stole a quick kiss, because he couldn't help himself.

"You already knew that about me," said Rosalie, with a wink. "Come on, let's eat." 

They went into the dining room, where the table was covered with plates of delicious-looking mini-quiches, satay, and other canapés, as well as a giant bowl of the promised salad. Diana was coming out of the kitchen with a damp cloth. 

She waylaid Clinton by punching him lightly on the arm. "Hey, Rosalie's great. It's good to see you so happy."

"I am," said Clinton. He didn't need her approval, but he was glad of it anyway. He glanced around at everyone—Rosalie talking to Elizabeth; Theo sitting on Mozzie's lap, eating a quiche; the empty chairs acting as placeholders for Peter and Neal, who were doing their dad thing upstairs; even Satchmo, who'd followed them into the dining room and, patient and hopeful, was watching Theo eat. It was chaotic and cheerful, a second family. "You know what, forget the van," he told Diana. "We may not have Paris, but we'll always have this."

 

END


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